


I Would Trade

by bofurlove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John is really sad after Sherlock, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Sadness, Sucide, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurlove/pseuds/bofurlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its been three years since Sherlock leapt off the roof of St. Bart's Hospital. John is so tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock writing adventure....Ah!

**_“Sherlock….no…no….”_ **

**_John falls to his knees besides the pale and bleeding body of his best friend. Those uniquely grey-blue eyes void of the life that filled them not a minute ago. There are hands on him, pulling him and shaking him as he clutches to the limp body of Sherlock Holmes; tears streaming down his face and he feels like he’s drowning. Drowning in all the words that never were spoken, the feelings that were never confessed. Hands pulling him harder now._ **

**_He clings all the harder to Sherlock, dragging him into his lap; the blood drenching his clothes as he cradles the dead man’s broken head in his lap gently._ **

John jolted awake panting, quickly running his hand over his face as he caught the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. It was always the same nightmare…always. Taking a glance at the clock he let out a soft groan of frustration. It was still early. Too early to go back to sleep; if he actually were able to fall back asleep. It’s always the same nightmare that plagues him, each night robbing him of rest and comfort. Not that he deserved a rest and reprieve from the throbbing ache that wouldn’t go away…no he deserved this pain.

Gently he pulled himself up to sit in the silence of the flat staring at the mostly empty room that he slept in. He still climbed each of the steps to the smaller room upstairs, he couldn’t bring himself to even touch the door to Sherlock’s room. No, that was a sacred place. No one was to enter that room. Mycroft had tried to come and box up Sherlock’s things and take them away but John had chased him out of the flat.  The doctor threw his legs out of the bed and stood on his feet with a grunt; the pain in his leg causing him limp along as he made his way to the bathroom. Shucking off his pajamas and pants he spared a glance at the shattered mirror on the wall before turning on the shower. The glass was cracked, each line spidering out from the initial point where John’s fist had made contact with it 5 months after the fall.

Silently he stared at the distorted reflection of himself until steam began to fill the bathroom before stepping into the scalding hot stream of water. He made no attempt to cool the temperature, the pain of the heat didn’t matter. He just stood and let the liquid cascade over his hair and flesh to mingle with the tears that were steadily flowing from his eyes as he silently wept. He knew that today was going to be difficult. He knew that it was going to hurt. Firmly he pressed his hand to his chest over his heart; the muscle pumping the blood through his body as it always had. Who would have thought that he would come to despise that one muscle so much for all the pain it caused him to feel. He makes no attempt to clean himself or wash his body. Only standing there in the shower with his forehead pressed against the tile til the water had begun to run cold.

Once he began to shiver he pulled himself out of the water to dry himself off and pad his way back to his room and staring into his closet. Gently he ran his fingers over the now too loose clothes that hung in the closet, over the jumpers that Sherlock would tease him for; before picking out the chunky oatmeal colored one. Pulling on his clothes he is grateful for the bulk the jumper provides, allowing him to hide the weight he has continued to lose over the last three years.

He had quit eating regularly after Sherlock’s fall, seeing no point in it. Though those in his life had tried their best to get him to eat his meals: Harry, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade. Harry was the first, she had come over jumpy and nervous trying to coax him to eat the curry she had picked up for him before finally relenting. Then Molly and Lestrade, coming over together with a meal for them all to share. The two of them eating and trying to make light conversation while John sat and picked silently at his food. Even Mycroft had made attempts to improve the doctor’s appetite, finally resorting to threats of shipping John to a rehab facility.

 _“Sherlock would have wanted you to care for yourself”_ he would say. _“He would not have approved you’re your sitting here uselessly day in and day out wallowing in your self-pity Johnathon.”_

Mycroft…..John glared at his shoes as he laced them up quickly. That great pompous git. John still held the man greatly responsible for Sherlock’s fall. The man had given Moriarty everything he needed in order to destroy the consulting detective. Who the hell was Mycroft to tell him what Sherlock would or would not have wanted John to do? Besides, it no longer mattered. Sherlock was dead and had been for three years to the day.

Sighing John ran his fingers through his now shaggy long blonde hair; streaks and hints of grey here and there. Now more prominent than ever after three years of grief and stress.

The good doctor had spent the first year after the fall mourning and making desperate attempts to convince the world that Sherlock had been real. That the man was not a fraud, and that he believed in Sherlock Holmes with all his might. Part of him desperate for something to cling to, because none of it felt real at first. But slowly as the first year and a half passed and Sherlock’s name was cleared; all his cases proved in their legitimacy and Lestrade no longer on probation, the gravity of it all began to settle on John.

John thought of all the months he sat and went over and over all the cases that he and Sherlock had worked together as he made his way down the stairs and shrugging on his jacket. Looking around the sitting room of 221B, almost unchanged in its appearance since the day Sherlock had died. Only a few stacks of files here and there still lingered on the tables where John still flipped through the files and notes of the cases. Letting out a sigh John scooped up his keys, locking the flat behind him as he set out to the pavement and hailing a cab.

“Saint Bartholomew’s Please?”

John sat in silence as he gazed out the window of the cab, not paying attention to the buildings or people that they passed by; completely oblivious to the cabbies attempt at small conversation until they pulled up to the curb. With his chest tight he carefully counted out the exact amount due and handed the cash to the driver before climbing out.

A lump filled John’s throat as he stood on the pavement where he stood exactly three years ago and stared up at the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. The exact spot where his best friend had stood and said goodbye before leaping to his death. His best friend whom he had…still...loved with all his being, but was too frightened to say the words in fear of damaging what they already had in their friendship. Now that he thought back to it he should have just said those three words to that marvelously mad man. What if he had just said how he felt and it could have been the thing that changed his mind? What if all he needed was to know that he was loved? That he was wanted? That someone believed in him completely?

“Oi! Watch it mate!” John was broken out of his thought as he was rammed into by a surly looking teenager who glared at him leaving him with a throbbing bad shoulder.

“John” the familiar voice of Molly caught John’s attention and he was met with the sight of her looking at him with worry in her eyes. He knew exactly why. He hadn’t seen or talked to the woman in the last 9 months. The last time being when she and Greg had to talk him down from the very same ledge he had just been staring at moments ago.

“Hello Molly.” John took a deep breath and smiled weakly at her with sad red eyes.

“How’ve you been? It’s been a while.” Molly was watching him closely while he fidgeted with his fingers. He knew what she was thinking. He could see every though when they looked at him. Eyes full of pity. It was the same with everybody since Gred had come to 221B and taken away his Browning. That night the DI had sat outside the apartment door all night long and into the next day after having spent the afternoon prior talking him down from the ledge. They all knew, and the pity in their eyes only grew with each meeting.

“I’m doing alright. Just heading to my appointment with Ella right now.” Why did he have to run into Molly today? The day was going to be difficult enough without running into a handful of “friendly” faces.

“Here let me walk with you since it’s just a little ways away and I have some time before I need to be at work.” John nodded and started to make his way to the next building over where Ella’s office was.

“We’ve missed see you about, Greg and I. We should get together sometime, or you can visit me anytime at work.” John tried to hide his wince as she suggested he visit the morgue to see her. The thought of walking into the morgue or even in through the doors of St. Barts made his stomach twist into knots. Molly must have seen his twitch, “Oh…I’m so sorry John…I really am. That was silly of me to suggest…I…I really am sorry…” She stood there and stared at him sadly with tears in her eyes before she grabbed him and pulled him into a tight hug. “You call me if you need _anything._ Please John.” Pulling back she looked into his eyes sadly before running off towards the hospital in a hurry leaving John to just sigh and continue on his way to his appointment with Ella.

**

“So John…”

John played with his fingers as he sat silently in the chair across from his therapist. It was a familiar scene, one that had been played out many times in the last three years at the insistence of Mycroft after John’s incident on the roof. John simply looked up from his lap at Ella who sat there, pen in hand, watching him expectantly.

“You really must talk about how you are feeling. Especially today.”

“I’m fine.”

“You really are not John.”

John got up from his chair angrily, his pulse pounding in his temples as he paced around the chair he had just vacated. “I really am. I am perfectly fine. I just haven’t been able to sleep is all.”

“Today is the anniversary of…”

“DON’T! Don’t say it. I don’t want to talk about it. I am fine! I wouldn’t even be here today if bloody Mycroft hadn’t rearranged your schedule to make sure that I would be here on today in particular!” he took a breath to try and calm himself as he was exhausted and his rage was boiling in him. “Don’t think I don’t know that that is why my appointment needed to change. Fucking arse, trying to control my life. He has no right! If I want to sit at home in my flat today it is none of his business! Or anyone else’s!!!”

Ella sat in her chair, her face schooled and composed as John ranted at her; watching as he began to tire. The exhaustion was written plainly on his body as he slumped back into the chair again with his head in his hands. “I just need some sleep is all.”

Looking down at her pad of paper Ella jotted down some notes before taking out her prescription pad and writing out a prescription for him. “This is a prescription for 3 pills. They allow you to get some rest. I want you to come back in 3 days and we will have another appointment and discuss if your sleep has improved.

Taking the slip of paper John nodded weakly before getting up and leaving the office without saying a word. He stepped outside into the rain and decided that he would walk home to druggist and then home. He ignored the cold and made his way in a blur not registering how long it took him to walk or even how far; filling his prescription and going back to the flat where he trudged up the stairs soaking wet.

He didn’t bother taking off his jacket or wet shoes, the rubber squeaking as me made his way to the bathroom to collect the pill bottle along with the bottle of whiskey that was resting on the back of the toilet. Holding the plastic bottle in one hand and the whiskey in the other he walked towards the room that had stayed shut for the last three years.

He placed his shaking fingers on the knob gently, the feel of the metal cold on his already chilled skin. John took in a shuddering breath as he turned the knob and opened the door; the room dark save for the slight light that came through the window with the stormy weather. There he stood in the doorway taking in the room around him: the periodic table hanging on the wall to the right, the large bed perfectly made, the nightstand with books stacked on it, the ashtray from Buckingham Palace balanced atop the pile. The sight of the crystal ashtray caused the tears that were pooling in the doctor’s eyes to overflow and stream down his wet face.

That single ashtray was just one of the many happy happy memories John had of his time with Sherlock. Though living with Sherlock had been a difficult trial a great deal of the time it was what he loved most about him. Every second with that man was an adventure, a new experience.

Carefully John crossed the threshold into the room and sat himself on the edge of the bed and listened to the rain beat against the windows, the only sound in the flat.

“Sherlock…” the words were thick and wanting to stick in his throat as they made their way from the aching hollow of his chest, “Oh Sherlock, I miss you….everyday. I miss your rudeness. I miss the severed body parts in the refrigerator. I miss having to make you eat. I miss making you tea. I miss everything about you…..my life is so empty without you in it…”

John closed his eyes at the tears continued down his cheeks and he began to shiver; grief and the chill of the rain sending tremors through his body. “If only I could see you again. There is so much I needed to tell you. I would tell you exactly how I felt…feel…about you. How from the day that I met you, you had turned my life upside down. Making me question everything about myself that I thought I knew. You saved me Sherlock Holmes. You saved me from the loneliness that had almost consumed me. You saved me and gave me a reason to keep going. You were that reason……There are things in this life that are worth everything…..and you were that for me. You gave me a reason to exist….” A sob bubbled up and escaped John’s lips, causing him to clasp his hand over his mouth as his chest heaved in painful breaths; his body now shaking uncontrollably. “And then….and then you took it away! You saved me only to rip it all away from me! Why?”

Taking the bottle of whiskey in his hands he unscrewed the cap and took a long drink from it. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have been such a coward. I should have told you how important you were to me while you were here.” Sniffing loudly he took another long swig. “I should have told you that I was there for you. That I would always be there. You, Sherlock, I cannot live without in my life…..It’s too quiet here now…..It’s too still….It’s too empty…this silence…..its deafening….” John pulled the small bottle he had just gotten from the druggist and added the pills to the bottle already in his lap. He had been saving the pills, not wanting to use them when he needed them. He felt he deserved the nightmares. He deserved the pain that they brought. It was his punishment for his cowardice.

“I have been trying…I really have Sherlock. But….it’s just too hard. I would much rather leave this world and be with you than try to continue on without. Your name is cleared now you know? Lestrade and I spent months and months going over your cases you worked and each and every one of them were proved legitimate. Anderson and Donovan were shocked, and they even apologized to me. I punched Anderson in the face.” John chuckled and sobbed at the memory. “Oh Sherlock….I would trade….everything….all of it….just to see your face and tell you all the things that I should have…”

John sat still with the two bottles in his hand, the whiskey and the pills before tipping the pills into his mouth emptying the bottle onto his tongue before gulping them down with the rest of the bottle of the whiskey. Once the last drop passed over his lips he let himself collapse back onto the bed and gathered the pillows and buried his face in them. They still smelled faintly of Sherlock. John closed his eyes tight and breathed deeply as he imagined Sherlock once again. His gorgeous curls that begged to have fingers run through them. His ivory flawless skin, and those eyes. Those beautiful mysterious eyes filled with all the answers and questions in the world. John’s body began to feel heavy as he felt the pills begin to take hold of him. He clutched the pillow all the tighter as he felt the darkness overtake him; the image of Sherlock filling his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little ficlet was inspired by the combination of this art by my lover:  
> http://madwomanlexie.tumblr.com/post/64235796111/poop-i-had-a-whole-story-laid-out-in-my-head-and
> 
> and this song by Clarensau  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wdm40Ody2Q8
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, no beta. Just me typing it out. All spelling, grammatical and punctuational errors are my own. But I kind of dont care. XD

Silently Sherlock made his way into room 109 of the Intensive Care Unit at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital; the room dark, save for the soft glow of the lights in the hallway. Standing just barely in the room he absorbs all of his surroundings out of habit from the last three years taking down Moriarty’s web on his own; never being able to let his guard down. He listens to the soft pattering of the rain beating against the window to the right of the bed, it hadn’t stopped raining since the day he got the call from Mycroft of the dire need for him to return home.The beeping of the heart monitor mixed with the hiss of the ventilator breathing for John causes his heart to lurch in his chest.

_“This is all wrong. This is not how it was supposed to be.”_

Slowly he made his way to sit in the chair that was directly beside the hospital bed that held the frail frame of John H. Watson, lifting the ice filled rag that Molly had given him to his face to nurse the wound where Greg had struck him.

_“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”_

_Greg shook as he held his fist in his other hand, the rage pouring off of the man in waves. He had not hesitated at all the moment Sherlock had stepped into the room, throwing his fist as hard as he could into the younger man’s face._

_“You have NO idea what John has been through….what YOU put him through!”_

_Lestrade’s words cut like a knife through Sherlock causing more damage than any punch could have. He knew that this was all his fault, he didn’t need reminding, but if it weren’t for his actions John would have been shot._

_“Do you have any idea how many nights I sat outside the door of that flat just to make sure he was okay?!?! I had to talk him off that same ledge Sherlock! I had to stand there with my heart pounding in fear while his toes hung off the edge of that roof while he sobbed about failing you!”_

_Greg’s eyes were filled with tears that were barely contained._

_“The two days ago I got a call from Molly telling me she had a bad feeling that John was going to hurt himself.”_

_The tears spilled freely down the silver haired man’s face now as he spoke; his voice thick with his sadness and breath stuttering._

_“He barely made it Sherlock….when I found him he was face down in his own sick….30 pills….30 pills he had saved up over the last 3 years for that day. His lips were blue when I got there….god!” The detective ran his hand over his face harshly, wiping away the tears, “He died…..twice….from the flat to the hospital….I watched that man lose his pulse completely TWICE!”_

_Greg snapped his mouth shut as his chest heaved with labored breaths of grief and trauma. He no longer could continue his rant, simply shaking his head as he began to walk away from where Sherlock and Molly stood outside John’s hospital room; turning back once he was a few yards away and spoke softly._

_“I’m glad you’re alive Sherlock….God knows I am. But….if John doesn’t make it through this….I’ll never forgive you….” He turned and fixed his stare on Molly then, “Either of you.”_

_Once he had rounded the corner Molly broke down sobbing and left Sherlock to himself to stare into the window of the room; too afraid to step foot inside. Stepping inside would make it real. When she came back she handed him the ice filled rag before sniffling and leaving him again._

Setting the ice rag on the rolling tray beside the bed he took hold of John’s frail hand and took in the changed man. This was not the same man he left behind three years ago. Where John used to be strong and covered with compact muscles he was now thin and emaciated; causing the hospital gown to hang loosely on his body.

The John he left behind kept his hair neat and trimmed with military precision. Now it hung long and flipped out slightly about his ears and jaw line that was far too prominent due to the shorter man’s self-malnutrition. The face that was normally tanned, bright and cheerful was pale, a sign that he had not stepped foot outside in months. The dark circles that surrounded his sunken eyes telling the story of many sleepless nights.

How had it come to this? How did John fall so far while he was gone? If only he had heeded Mycroft’s words when he tried to warn him that John was struggling.

_“Dearest brother, you must return. Let my men finish the job. Moran is cornered and has nowhere to hide. I implore you. Return…for John..”_

_“John will be fine! Just a little while longer. I have to take out Sebastian Moran myself! It has to be me! John is strong. He will be fine.”_

But here he was….not fine. He was lying in a hospital bed in a dark room with tubes and wires coming out of him this way and that. Sherlock swallowed down a sob as it tried to erupt from his throat; closing his eyes to try and stem off the tears that stung hot in his eyes.

_Everything was so wrong._

Everything he had done, he did to save John. To save the man he loved more than anything else in the world. But things had gone too far. Why couldn’t he have just allowed Mycroft to take out Moran for him? Why couldn’t he have put aside his need for up close and personal revenge on the sniper assigned to John?

…. _I should have come back sooner…._

Now here they were in the eerily quiet room with John barely clinging to life; his body sleeping deeply, completely unaware of the sorrow so many people were feeling at the surrender of a great man. Gently Sherlock stroked his thumbs over the metacarpal bones of John’s hand as the ventilator hissed and caused the smaller man’s chest to rise.

“Oh my John…” Using his other free hand he brushed the too long fringe out of John’s face before tracing his fingers over and along the features of the man’s face; relearning each detail of the man now changed.

“Doctor Watson was very lucky dear brother.” Mycroft’s voice broke through the silence of the room where he stood in the doorway.

Sherlock refused to turn around to look at his brother; certain that he would be wearing a smug look.

“I should have been here.”

Letting out a long sigh Mycroft slowly made his way across the room to grasp his brother’s shoulder squeezing it gently.

“What matters is that you are here now. The doctors said that he will be off the dialysis machine this afternoon and that they have cleaned all traces of the drugs from his blood and he has no liver damage and will remove the ventilator then as well. All we can do now is wait.”

Sherlock nodded softly as he let the tears pour from his closed eyes while clutching John’s hand in his while his brother gave his shoulder a final squeeze before leaving. Slowly the consulting detective slipped into an exhausted dreamless.

**

The feeling of fingers running their way through his hair drew him lazily from his slumber. He breathed in deeply, not wanting to open his eyes as he enjoyed the calming touch.

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself…”

The sound of John’s voice had Sherlock shooting up in his chair wide eyed and staring at John who was sitting up and awake in the bed. He wore a small smile as he stared back at the younger man.

“John…..I…..”

“Mycroft was here a little while ago. You know when you sleep you sleep like the dead. I woke up and thought this was just a dream, that I had accomplished what I had set out to do and was finally with you on the other side.”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears as he listened to the man he loved and a lump grew in his throat. John simply smiled back at him with kind eyes.

“Then I saw Mycroft sitting over there.” John nodded to the chair that sat opposite Sherlock’s and chuckled to himself. “Mycroft explained what happened. About Moriarty, Moran, and your mission the last three years.” John took a deep breath and let it out slowly with a pained look on his face.

“Sherlock…”

“John please let me explain…”

“No.” John breathed in through his nose harshly and swallowed, “I have something to say and I need to say it without any interuptions…..” When he opened his eyes he waited for Sherlock to nod in understanding before he continued with his eyes in his lap.

“For the last three years I have been so very alone. I took for granted how blessed I was to have you in my life. I knew from the moment I met you that I loved you, and I was too much of a coward to tell you so. I was so afraid of what it would mean….what it might ruin….But I do Sherlock. I love you, and I just needed you to know that. I needed you to know that I love you, and I have never stopped believing in you.”

When John looked again it was with a watery smile, and Sherlock could not handle sitting any longer. In a heartbeat he was on his feet and carefully but firmly wrapped himself around the smaller man’s chest; his own heaving with emotion as tears of his own pooled in his eyes.

“Not a day passed by that I didn’t miss you. That I didn’t turn around to tell you something and realize you were gone. I did what I had to do to save you John. I have loved you with all my heart for quite some time. I _cannot_ lose you. I can’t, If you were to pass from this world I would follow you soon after. I cannot survive another day without my doctor.”

Sherlock felt the touch of John’s fingers in his hair again as he gripped the back of his head tightly, and the splash of tears in his hair.

“Don’t ever leave me again and you won’t have to be without me.” John’s voice was a shaky whisper as he spoke, pulling Sherlock’s face from his chest and the younger man’s face in his hands; stroking his thumbs across the prominent cheekbones. Slowly he leaned forward and brought his lips to Sherlock’s and kissed him gently.

Sherlock thought his heart might stop from the overwhelming joy he felt racing through his veins at the simple connection of lips, and couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as they separated and rested their foreheads against one another.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t trade life with you for the world. You won’t be rid of me anytime soon.” _No, you won’t be rid of me ever if I can help it._

Gingerly Sherlock crawled up into the bed beside John and wrapped his body around the smaller man to lay his head on his chest and listen to the steady heartbeat that sounded within; softly drifting back to sleep with John in his arms….. _his_ John.


End file.
